


Wilson Green

by eponine119



Category: What's Your Mama's Name Child? (Song)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-24
Updated: 2009-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 04:50:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/37987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eponine119/pseuds/eponine119
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's finally asking questions, now that time is almost gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wilson Green

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Joanne_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joanne_c/gifts).



Her green eyes have turned pale and watery by the time she starts asking questions. Her bones have been known to ache when a big storm is coming. She still lives in New Orleans, though everyone tied to that place is gone from her now: grandmother and mother and husband. Her daughter moved away, years ago. Men never did last long in their family.

Her daughter called and said, "Mama, you should come visit." Her daughter doesn't think she can look after herself. She knows she won't be coming home. Her neighbor loads the box of precious things into the trunk of her car for her. Her daughter wanted to come down and get her, but this she can do by herself. She's not that old.

She almost remembers the days before cars. Before highways, before all of this. She drives past the old family home in the Garden District, slowing for a good long look, knowing it's goodbye.

"To grow old is a terrible thing," she says to her granddaughter. She's not sure who is babysitting who. But the girl listens to her, green eyes vivid and interested in a way her daughter's never were.

She feels the need to talk. To pass things on. Now that she's here, it feels like time is short.

In the box, there are almost as many photos of people she doesn't recognize as there are of people she does. Some of them are labeled every so faintly in pencil, in her grandmother's hand. "That's my mother, your grandmother." She hands the image to the girl.

"I know where that is," her granddaughter says. "It's here in Memphis. Who's that guy?"

She doesn't know, but the girl turns it over, makes out the writing that was invisible to her aging eyes. "B-something Wilson." The girl hands it back.

She looks at it again and a dagger goes through her, stealing away her breath. She recognizes those features now. The color of the eyes, even in black and white. This is her father. Her hand trembles. He's been here all along. B-something Wilson.

She's a Wilson. She always has been, though her mother never said.

"Find him for me," she says to the girl, who is looking at her with wide, alarmed green eyes. "He's your great-grandfather." Then the world fades out for awhile.

In the hospital, on a short-timed visit, the girl whispers into her ear. "I think his name is Buford."

She whispers it to herself when she is alone, when the nurses wake her in the night. Buford Wilson, Buford Wilson.

They let her go home. Her daughter's face is tight and lined. Talking about falls and food and nonsense. She doesn't need any of that now.

"I don't know if I should tell you." The girl steals into her room at night, papers in her hand. She knows who it's about. "I found him on the census. Online." She looks at the paper. "He was in jail."

She looks at the paper. The spidery hand. The list of prisoners in a local county jail. Jail but not prison. Maybe he was bad, but not that bad. She smiles, thinking how her mother cussed at her when she tried to date those bad boys in her youth. Her mother must have too.

"Find out," she says. Her voice drops as she feels compelled to add, "Hurry."

The sky is blue, she can see it from her bed. The trees have lost their leaves and the world is cold. Though the house is heated, she can feel it through the glass. She won't see spring again. Her daughter's given up her nagging. She comes in silently to do her duty, only when necessary.

But the girl still comes. Talks and talks, about nothing, heart light as a bird. Today she's brought papers with her. "It was in the newspaper. What he did, I mean. To go to jail. In the census."

She nods, eager to hear it.

"It's kind of silly, I guess, if you think about it. I don't know, unless it's code for something else. He used to talk to kids. On the street. Girls. He never did anything, just asked them a question. And gave them candy. I guess people kinda knew about him, but they thought it'd gone on long enough so they put him in jail. I wonder if he stopped after that." The girl looks down and fingers the papers.

She looks at her granddaughter, imploring: what was the question?

"He'd ask what their mother's name was. If she ever talked about him, or New Orleans." The girl's eyes are troubled, and she looked ready to fly away. "I guess he never got the answer he wanted to hear."

She thinks back, trying to remember something that never happened. They lived in Memphis a year or so. Her mother trying to live her own life again, away from the family. It was when she was eight. Her favorite dress was striped, and her hair was in braids. She tries to remember him asking. But if he had, she would have told him. Wouldn't she?

What if the memory was real, if she just hadn't told him? Would her mother's life have been different? Would her own?

The days had gotten short. Hours slipped by while she slept. It wouldn't be long now. She was still waiting for something. Something that wasn't coming, and she'd have to leave unresolved. Soon enough now she'd see him, waiting for her on the other side. Would she be a little girl again? Would her mother be there too?

Her granddaughter brings her an envelope. It's yellowed and soft as she is. They are almost the exact same age, this envelope and the letter inside it. Instead of reading it to her, the girl hands it to her so she can read the few words written in, yes, her mother's hand.

It said, you have a daughter. And her eyes are Wilson green.

(end)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Yuletide Madness.


End file.
